


Demons In Our Own Eyes

by Mysterycheerio



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Assassin Peter Parker, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Peter Parker, Blood, Blood and Gore, F/M, Gen, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Kidnapping, Killing, Missions, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Natasha Romanov, Red Room (Marvel), Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26900713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysterycheerio/pseuds/Mysterycheerio
Summary: He was captured, but couldn't remember how long ago it was now.Ballet, training, missions.White Room.White Room.Red Room.-Everyone starts in a white room. Eventually, over time, the room is painted red. Every square inch, even the ceiling, is eventually red. Except, in the Red Room, its not paint.It's the blood on your hands.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker/Gwen Stacy
Comments: 14
Kudos: 110





	Demons In Our Own Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> TW: gore (graphic, but not really kinda), child assassins, blood.
> 
> based off of the idea that one starts in a white room, and eventually, it's painted red.

White. Snow White.

Ivory laces wrap delicately around pale legs, the silk feeling natural and strange at the same time. The box is firm, not broken into. The sole is untouched. The sides aren’t sewn.

Everything is white. The whole room. The ceiling, the floor, the walls... one, two, three, four. His hands are pale, his fingers skinny. He marvels at the lithe appendages as the grab onto the silk again, tying them up his calves once more.

The room is empty except for the small table and a bed, both also white.

He stares as the delicate silk sits on his lower leg, then unravels it hastily.

Nothing about this is delicate.

-

His first mission.

He gags at the memory of blood splattering the wall, the squelch sound he heard when the bullet hit the brain.

He tries not to think about the body crawling feebly towards the door, leaving a trail of blood behind. And then the bullet.

Once the body is removed, he places his weapons on the table, draws in a shaky breath, then crouches down beside the smear of blood.

His first red stain in the White Room.

-

He continues to train.

He has a sparring partner, a girl his age, with platinum blonde hair and a big, warm smile. They weren’t friends, they weren’t allowed to be. But they did actually grow fond of each other.

Her name was Gwen, he learned.

After a couple of months, they spar once more. He had been beating her for a while now, and when he looked at madame... she motions to kill her.

He hears Gwen whisper, “Just do it. You’ll get in trouble if you don’t.”

That’s the thing about this place, it drains your mental wellbeing – your very will to live. So when an opportunity comes like this, you accept it.

He hears the tears in her voice, but doesn’t see them. Doesn’t see her face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in her hair.

He laughs humourlessly – he gets into the proper stance.

Then, “I love you.”

He hears the skin split, the bones crunch, the body slumping to the floor.

When he gets back in the White Room, he doesn’t fail to notice how its just a little less white.

-

He’s back in his room, white pointe shoes on his feet. His handler is in the corner, watching him practice.

He’s silent, breathing controlled and mouth shut.

He turns, right leg pointed to his left. Again, and again. And again.

He stops, extends his arms, and lowers from pointe.

“Again.”

-

He curls into the arms of the red haired woman -he had yet to learn her name. She ran her hand through his curls, an action he found familiarity in, but it didn’t seen quite right coming from her, as she sniffled, breathing heavily as if she was upset.

His face is blank, unfeeling.

He figures she must be new.

Weakness isn’t tolerated here.

-

He hears the alarm.

He can hear it, but he ignores it, just like all the other teens do.

They move in synchronised harmony, thin arms extending and contracting, going on pointe.

Eventually, the handlers come in, his handler guiding him to his room, which, since he had gone on missions more frequently, had turned fully red.

He sits, cross legged in the center, and watches as the door collapses.

-

When they find Peter, he’s sitting in an entirely red room. He wars pointe shoes, clearly white, but covered in what appeared to be blood. There’s weapons on the table, and an elderly woman in the corner.

He doesn’t stir when they guide him out of the room.

Doesn’t say anything when they take him to the medbay.

His facial expression is neutral, but he just looks... broken.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

-

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I do take requests, yall know that right???
> 
> 𝓢𝓸𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓵 𝓶𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓪:  
> 𝓘𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓶: @mysterycheerio   
> 𝓣𝓾𝓶𝓫𝓵𝓻: mysterycheerio   
> 𝓣𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻: @mysterycheeriox
> 
> pls follow me  
> if you do want a request, you can submit it here, but if prefer it on tumblr or instagram


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